


la bestia de la noche

by cabriesun



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Disney, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fairy Tale Style, Fluff, Inspired by Disney, Lance (Voltron) as Beauty (Beauty and the Beast), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 17:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18526108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabriesun/pseuds/cabriesun
Summary: For as long as Lance could read and recite words off their worn pages, he’s loved books.Not just the knowledge that came from them. He could get that from anywhere; hell, he could leave his house once in awhile and gain that same knowledge.No, Lance loves the wonder that comes with books. A novel is a beloved gift, wrapped neat and tied with a red satin ribbon just dying to be torn. They’re endless adventures bursting through his doors, dragging him back in each time he completes a new one.A novel is the safest escape from life he’s come to find. That is, until he finds the most dangerous one of them all.In a matter of two weeks, he’s managed to transition from curling up in front of a fire with his hermanito and reading cozy children’s books, to stumbling through a daunting forest, where it snows even in the most brutal of summers.Taking the events that follow, and the dull pounding of his heart against his ribcage as he looks back at the looming castle he’s called home for the past two weeks, Lance is certain he’s conjured a portal to one of his overzealous fairy tales.





	la bestia de la noche

**Author's Note:**

> my fic for the zine 'second star to the right'! i modded this as well as formatted and wrote for it! it was a pleasure and it brings me joy to finally be able to post this!

For as long as Lance could read and recite words off their worn pages, he’s loved books.

Not just the knowledge that came from them. He could get that from anywhere; hell, he could leave his _house_ once in awhile and gain that same knowledge.

No, Lance loves the _wonder_ that comes with books. A novel is a beloved gift, wrapped neat and tied with a red satin ribbon just dying to be torn. They’re endless adventures bursting through his doors, dragging him back in each time he completes a new one.

A novel is the safest escape from life he’s come to find. That is, until he finds the most dangerous one of them all.

In a matter of two weeks, he’s managed to transition from curling up in front of a fire with his hermanito and reading cozy children’s books, to stumbling through a daunting forest, where it snows even in the most brutal of summers.

Taking the events that follow, and the dull pounding of his heart against his ribcage as he looks back at the looming castle he’s called home for the past two weeks, Lance is certain he’s conjured a portal to one of his overzealous fairy tales.

 

* * *

 

Lance dies a little bit inside when he abandons the castle he’d come to know so well. He emerges from the blizzard into the cool August air, tugging at the reins to stop, and reconcile with what he’d learned. What he’d eventually have to face.

There’s a suspense crawling up his throat, choking the life out of his frail body. Lance recognizes this part of the plot better than any. These were the scenes that would keep him from closing the book and dangling from a thin white string. The falling action. The confrontation. He hears it calling out in the form of raging clamor from his notoriously peaceful home.

He’s scared, but he knows that there’s no room for that. He’d been scared of so much before he met the Beast. After two weeks of nothing but sharp teeth, looming footsteps, and the stir in his gut that he might not live to see the next day, Lance feels almost invincible.

Somehow—though he knows _exactly_ how—he’s ready.

With nothing but his wits and a golden dress that trails far past his legs, Lance tugs the reins back to his chest before riding back into his town.

His arrival isn’t warranted, considering the circumstances. The dress brings more attention than he’d initially hoped, and he had to fight to ignore the prying eyes that drink in the dip of his chest. There are much more important matters to attend to than his own pride. For now, at least.

“Lance!”

The first call of his name he hears upon reining in his horse is expected, but Lance can’t help the voluntary cringe that follows short behind it.

Lotor. Not the only suitor that’s approached him in the years, but the most obnoxious, yes. Conceited, probably fits the bill better.

“Lance, where have you been?!” He asks, taking hold of Lance’s shockingly smaller hand, “The entire town has been worried sick about you!”

“Where’s my father?!” Lance ignores the question in its entirety, along with the glare that follows, “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you get away with this, Lotor!”

The chuckle that leaves his lips sends an unquenchable fire through Lance’s veins. His tolerance for men like him has lessened in his time away, and it isn’t going to cease. Goosebumps pebble along soft, light brown skin. Just as he feels it all boil over his hand surges to cross Lotor’s face in a blazing fury.

“You _asshole!_ ” He seethes through gritted teeth, “Answer my question!”

Lotor draws back from the strike, his eyes flickering from the people that surround him, back to Lance, then to the wagon where Lance can only presume he father is trapped.

“Your father is _sick_ ,” he insists, “he speaks of a beast in a castle, holding him hostage for weeks. He begged us to leave our homes and venture into a forest dressed in snow in the midst of August!”

“He’s _right!”_ Lance insists, though he knows of the false connotations surrounding the beast, “There—There _is_ a beast!”

He can feel the shock from the crowd ripple through his body and freeze over his veins. There’s mention of cowardice, lying, even treason. But Lance knows where he stands. He didn’t survive two weeks of insanity to just be home and insulted by his own people.

“You want proof?!” He shouts, reaching for the magic mirror that had been gifted to him nearly a half hour ago.

“Yes!” Lotor’s regal, vicious tone steals the narrative from Lance’s grasp, “Let us hear of the terrible, _horrible_ beast that kidnapped you for two weeks! I’m sure it’s _quite_ the tale.”

The shouting that rises from the crowd favors Lotor’s declaration by a seemingly undefeatable landslide, but Lance doesn’t waver. He holds the mirror to his lips, a hushed, “Show me Shiro,” flitters into the air, the command wrapping about the golden frame.

There a shake before the picture begins to manifest before his, and Lotor’s eyes. The magic is so familiar to him by now it’s almost heartwarming to see. Lotor hovers above him.

In moments he’s shown the Beast. Hues of blue and purple streak along the glass, but his sharp teeth shimmer regardless, taking Lotor by his white mane of hair and drawing his attention in.

“You see?” Lance huffs, shucking the mirror from sight, “It’s true.”

When Lotor blinks, internalizes what he’s seen, Lance _swears_ he sees a shift. A dangerous one. What was once ameteur skepicism turns into full blown rage in a matter of three vital seconds.

  
“If there’s a beast…” Lotor growls, snatching the mirror from his relentless grasp, “then we should go out there and kill it!”

“No! He won’t hurt anyone—”

“ _It_ needs to be taken out before the village is attacked! Before innocent women and children are killed and the _brave_ men of this community are slaughtered at the hand of a… _thing_ that doesn’t deserve life!”

“Stop it!” Lance pushes at his chest with all intention of protecting Shiro, though his arms don’t prove to be as useful as he’d hoped. Lotor snatches him with an ease that makes the younger a bit ill, tossing him to the side and onto the dirt road before turning his attention back to his awaiting audience.

“I say we _kill_ the beast!”

Lance’s breath bunches and constricts in his throat.

“ _No—_ ”

Lance’s protest is futile once he’s snatched by two of Lotor’s burly, muscle men. He’d sadly never been too strong, a fact displayed tragically as he tries to fight against his captors. One willingly tugs him along, but the other wears an expression that Lance can almost discern to be fear. Before he can draw a certain conclusion, his shoulder blades take a firm hit against the wooden planks of a carriage. The room darkens as soon as his eyes pry open, the door creaking shut until it’s stopped by a firm hand.

“ _No one_ , will get in the way.”

Lance growls as the last sliver of Lotor’s face is presented to him, a sickly grin curling along his lips.

“Not even what once, _was_ purest heart of them all.”

 

* * *

 

_two weeks ago_

Three weeks into the month of July, Lance McClain’s father was deemed a missing person by local officials.

His mother cried, and his siblings hadn’t the slightest clue how to react; they only knew to console their aging mother.

Lance had known where his father was going before he went missing. Their store had gotten a delivery far off their regular course, into lands that the young man hadn’t the slightest knowledge of.  But this customer offered more money to the family than they could comprehend, and God knows they needed it.

So with a few supplies and a McClain style send off, Javier was off, determined to bring some good luck back to his beloved.

A week passed. The family knew the journey was far, so they kept their hopes up. Resumed every day work, just as their father would want them to.

After two weeks, Lance’s suspicion heightened.

  
Once week three passed, their big happy family caved to an inconceivable darkness.

Lance found himself between a rock and a hard place. On one hand, he was positive his father was alive. He refused to believe otherwise, for the sake of his mother, and all his young siblings who loved and cared for him unconditionally. But on the other, his hope was dwindling, already weak from the start.

To be more naïve than the rest of his family was a double edged sword; a burden, and a gift. His positive outlook was only seen as such, but more so than ever, he felt he needed that perspective to survive.

“What if he doesn’t come back?”

It wasn’t the first time his mother asked him that, both of them serving as the vital beacons of hope in their home.

“Mama, he will,” Lance took her in his arms, cradling in hopes to take the pain straight from her heart, “he’s strong, and so are you.”

“Ah, cariño,” she sighed shakily into his hair, “only if your hope was contagious.”

He’d made sure his mother was asleep, tucked in sweet and secure like she had done for him for so long, before crowding over his desk with a map of their little town. He knew their local roads better than he knew the back of his own palm, but Lance would have to study a bit further if he was to follow the same path his father took.

It was a decision he’d weighed the pros and cons of for days, but when the first tear slipped from his mother’s eyes, his answer was set in stone.

But if he’d known that making that mere choice to chase after his father was the tipping point of his life as he knew it, Lance would have more than likely turned away.

 

* * *

 

When Lance would lay awake in his childhood bed at night and let his imagination run rampant, he feared his father died of a heat stroke. Or perhaps he was kidnapped by one of the gangs that resided on the outskirts of town. They were stretches, Lance thought, until he learned what truly transpired.

Lance found his father sitting in a cage that hung twelve, if not more stories high. His breath had caught in his throat quickly at the sight, but it was stolen from him when he heard the first of many deep, guttural growls emerge from behind.

  
The fangs were the first of the many things that crawled down Lance’s spine. Long, sharp teeth that poked past his lips and curled ever so slightly. He was a creature from nightmares, dressed with grey fur that held traces of black and streaks of white in his overgrown bangs.

Lance ended up having to make a trade. A trade that he was more than willing to make, no matter the circumstances: his father’s life, for his own.

There were more protests than tears, both McClain men wanting to stay strong for the other. Stubbornness. He got it from his father, naturally.

It had taken a bit more convincing than he had hoped, but the beast had agreed to let Lance stay in exchange for his father’s life. He chooses to block the last moments between him them from his mind, even daring to hope that his death is quick and harmless. There were too many ways he could go; he could starve, or die from dehydration. Maybe he would cave, beg the beast to end him there and then. It’s against his nature, but he doesn’t know what his mind will succumb to in his imprisonment.

Though he doesn’t have to wait long to find out.

It’s around the third or fourth day of his imprisonment when the cage doors open, Lance isn’t greeted with bared teeth and a snarl. Instead, the slow ear-piercing creak of rusted metal is what wakes the young man from his almost-slumber.

“Come with me.”

Lance catches the last of it before he’s rubbing the slumber from his eyes in order to effectively glare.

“Where?”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the Beast says it with a low groan, “I’ve been… convinced out of that.”

“By whom?” Lance dares to ask, the prospect of another person possibly residing in the castle igniting a lost flame in his veins. Who else could live in this castle? From his view, he could see all the cages. The only conclusion he could make before being tugged by the arm, was that someone was residing here willingly.

“Just, follow me.”

 

* * *

 

They were in the Beast’s (or, Shiro, he learned his true name was) vast, seemingly endless library when Lance put together when a slew of unanswered questions clicked.

At first he was mesmerized by the library, confused as to why Shiro brought him _here_ , of all places. Eventually, the latter confessed that his father rambled endlessly of his eldest son. It made Lance’s cheeks glow, happy his father spoke so proudly of him. Concern and fear for his journey back lodged itself in his throat, yes, but he held strong as the days passed. With a bit more freedom than he was granted initially, he had some breathing room.

Besides, seeing the Beast in daylight more often triggered some more than concerning memories. If not memories, then images. Split scenes out of moments that he could barely remember…tales that he never assumed to be true. Lance finds himself gazing at Shiro’s curled, sharp horns longer than he needs to.

And when the Beast turns away, it hits him like a truck. A story, that his mother spent the course of a few days at a time telling.

“La Bestia de la Noche.”

The shuffling of pages comes to a gradual halt.

“La Bestia de la Noche…?”

“Yeah,” Lance eyes him from behind his book. It was some kind of romantic, British literature mystery, something he’d never gotten his hands on back in his hometown.

“What does that mean?”

There’s a threatening growl gurgling in his tone that annoys Lance more than anything. He’s come to learn that Shiro’s temper is commonly misplaced, and it’s quite the nuisance.

“It means ‘The Beast of the Night’,” he explains, trying to control his delivery, “it was a childhood folktale. We told the story in my town for years, we just…”

He pauses, suddenly faced with the reality that one of his stories did come true. Lance remembers his mother taunting him with the tale in order to get him to eat his vegetables at night. He even told the same story to his siblings. Now he sat with the devil of their folklore himself, lounging in his library as a prisoner of his castle.

“Just what?”

Lance is brought back to present day abruptly, the Beast before him. The gasp that was going to leave his lips dies in his throat instead.

“Didn’t think it was real. We didn’t think the story was true.”

Mentally, Lance braces himself for whatever backlash Shiro has building up in his system. He isn’t sure how long he’s been here (maybe a week or two, at best), but he’s become very accustomed to the beast. The young man hates to admit, but the deep thundering voice keeps him up at night. A firm reminder that though Lance was able to walk freely among the castle corridor, and wander through the garden coated in snow, that he is still captive.

“The books are yours to browse. I wish to not be disturbed.”

There’s a palpable hurt in his voice that lingers as he stalks away. One that causes Lance to wonder if the Beast realized just how much the world might know about him. He almost regrets mentioning the tale as he’s left to solitude once more, the massive wooden doors slamming shut behind the looming sadness that lurked out. For a moment, he felt the two were bonding. Over the simplest of things, sure, but bonding nonetheless.

It was the first time he’d felt a trace of humanity in the palace. To watch it be cut off hurt more than he’d anticipated. Lance turns to his book again, hoping heartfelt words will heal the beginnings of his immense wound, but the door creaks open again. It scrapes against the marble floors, and Lance’s eyes flicker back to where the Beast has returned, shoulders curled inwards.

“I…” His mouth parts, struggling with his next words, “I _hope_ , to see you tonight. For dinner.”

Lance smiles, small and reserved despite the warmth curling deep within his chest.

“I’ll be there.”

 

* * *

 

“I had an arm, you know?”

Lance, who knows that most, if not all creatures have some form of a limb attached to their body, glances up at the Beast with confusion. Of the two weeks he’d been residing in the castle, such an outburst never arose. They’d eaten hours ago, retiring to the library for a little late night reading. Mostly because Lance wanted to catch up on the Victorian style novel he’d found in one of the far corners off the library.

“What?”

“Well, I mean I have an arm, obviously,” he continues, swirling a cup of the nunvil he discovered in the back room of the kitchen, “but I had an _incredible_ arm.”

“I don’t understand?” The scene in Lance’s book is of little importance, the story waiting to be told by Shiro sounding much more interesting than the likes of widowed country women. The Beast guzzles the rest of his drink down the stretch of his neck before continuing.

“I suppose it’s still lies underneath all my fur, but it’s mechanical, and moves with an elegance that no mortal man could appreciate.”

“Good to know.”

“I used it when I fought alongside my father in battle.” He says, words as tipsy as the sways of his body. “We fought together for three years, before he was killed.”

“Oh my,” Lance leans forward sympathetically, “I’m so sorry.”

“He was murdered by the one man that had the power to: Zarkon…the Malicious.”

Lance had never heard of a ‘Zarkon the Malicious’ in the text he’s read. The name is abnormal, arrogant, more forced than anything. “I’ve never heard of it. Or well, him.”

“Well the entire thing he had going was ridiculous—” Shiro’s head spins, eyes rolling to the side before flickering back to Lance, “—if you’re really malicious, you shouldn’t have to put it in your damn name.”  
  
And _yeah_ , he has a point. The conceit reminds him far too much of Lotor. Though he may not have it in his name, he always makes it a show to prove that he is indeed the greatest of all men. Notorious for his unnecessary flair, disturbing pining and refusal to take no for an answer, Lance hates him, more or less. His mother and father usually encourage him to seek out a good man to marry, but the line snaps in two when it comes to the likes of Lotor.

“Actions speak louder than words…”

“Exactly!” Shiro exclaims, “It—it’s so ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Lance smirks, leaning back against the armrest of the chair and setting his book aside. “It is.”

 

* * *

 

When Lance was a little boy, he always adored watching his mother try on dresses. It wasn’t the stitching, or the colors that had him entranced, but rather the look on her work ridden face when she twirled. As if she didn’t have to return home and take care of her five children. She looked, felt, and encompassed that true princess feeling. He’d always wanted to wear a dress, to twirl the same way his mother did in the dress store.

He never thought the opportunity would present itself in the manner it did.

“I’ve had the dress for years, but no one has been able to fit it like you can.”

Lance, in his twenty two years of living, has never seen such an abundance of gold material in one place. Or, rather on one article of clothing. Regardless of his shock, the seamstress—Allura, was her name—carried on with fervor. That, and knowing that this seamstress was the same one who coaxed Shiro to have minor mercy on him was a compelling factor from the start.

“I probably used too much gold, but it matches your complexion so beautifully…”

“Hey,,” Lance stops her kindly, holding his hand out. “It’s gorgeous. I’ll wear it.”

He would have worn it regardless of the passion in her tone. It’s an ensemble he knows his own mother would wear regardless of the occasion, and there’s a strange sensation within him that _begs_ him to wear it in her honor. Or, something like that.

Shiro had invited him out for something a bit more formal than their dinners. When he was told to dress nice he internally panicked, wondering if the Beast had just _forgotten_ how he ended up here, but Allura thankfully had prepared for a situation like this. When Lance asked why, knowing that the castle had been vacant for quite a period of time, she shrugged it off with a smile, waving a strip of measuring tape before his eyes instead.

Allura is right, for the most part. It fits well, tight on his hips and loose the rest of the way, just as she promised. He hadn’t imagined anything less, but to see her words come true is more of a pleasure than it should be. Though it isn’t only a pleasure; it’s a relief.

The shoes take more than a lap around the bedroom to adjust to at first, but soon he finds a flow along with a strange adoration for the golden pointed heels. Yet another note from his mother that he saves in the back of his mind.

He was told to meet Shiro in the main ballroom as soon as Allura deemed him ready for presentation. There’s a bubbling in his stomach as the door shuts, his hands suddenly clammy through the soft gloves that decorate them. His stomach growls anxiously at him, but he brushes it off with a shake of his head. It’s certainly a more formal situation than they’reused to, and Lance isn’t sure what to make of it just yet. He knows what conclusion to draw, considering the dimmed lights that seem to grow darker with every step he takes, and the faint yet sweet fragrance of what _has_ to be a dessert that lingers in the air.

Yes, the conclusion is sitting there right before him. It’s truly the matter of just how much he _wants_ his assumption to be the answer. Because as much as it’s true that his face lights up with the hint of a small blush when Shiro greets him in the mornings, he’ll never admit.

“I’m glad you agreed to come.”

Lance glances up from where his feet lay hidden by endless flaps of gold. He expects to meet a hard gaze, to respond with only a curt nod. Instead his heart swells in the midst of a soft, gentle pair of eyes that hold nothing but pure adoration.

He’s no fool; he can see why Shiro’s appearance takes the air from Lance’s lungs in a manner that forces him to take a step back and remember how to breathe in the _first_ place.

“I’m… I’m glad that I did too,” Lance murmurs, a beat away from a stutter. Shiro only smiles, regardless of the panicked expression painted along the younger’s features.

“I uh,” Shiro folds his arms across his chest, twisting his ankle about before the next words escape his lips, “I was hoping that we could dance, if that’s alright with you.”

 _Dance? In this outfit?_ Is the first thing that pops into Lance’s head. The dress is too heavy—so much, he can already see himself tripping over himself like a fool. Or Shiro’s _paws_ , he realizes. And yet…

“I—I never learned how to dance.”

He hangs his head with a bit of shame mixed in with his initial shyness, tracing his finger along the dress that suddenly seems unflattering. Lance wants to escape before he can even consider letting himself curl into his anxiety, but Shiro takes his hand and alleviates any twists in his stomach. His smile acts as a tether rather than a drawback as Lance is led to the center of the floor.

“Neither did I.”

The lights dim on cue. Lance closes his eyes when Shiro guides him along, his surrender sufficing as the answer. His heart beats heavy in his chest, the occasional thud bringing him back to the present and farther from the clouds. His cheeks tint and burn longer than needed when Shiro’s left hand passes down his spine, stopping at the curve of his lower back.

Soft, elegant music plays from an unknown location, it’s whereabouts occupying Lance’s mind for only a moment before he’s swept away into a small spin. He’s almost afraid of spiraling to the marble but Shiro cradles him as he lifts him with gentle intention.

“I—I don’t think—” He’s ready to step out and call it a night but Shiro shushes him, closing the distance between them and thinning the air even more.

“You’re doing great,” the voice comes barely as a whisper, “part of dancing is letting your body flow with your surroundings. The music, the movement… you don’t have to think so hard.”

“Thinking is a strength.”

“Until it’s a weakness.”

“But I—”

“ _Lance_ ,” his voice drops to its usual dark tone, and the latter almost backs away. But instead,

“ _Relax_. Just…trust me.”

And after everything he’s been through, the weeks he’d spent in captivity, Lance caves to perhaps the most outrageous concept filtering his poor brain. _Trusting_ his captor.

And soon, _enjoying_ that decision.

Though things hadn’t been ideal at first, for Lance to admit that he truly had an affection for Shiro became less and less difficult for him to swallow.

Dancing is a lot easier when Lance lets his mind fly. Giggles burst from between his lips when Shiro spins him about the dance floor, the music falling in perfect tempo with every intricate movement of their bodies.

Time thins and flattens to nothing. It’s probably minutes before they draw apart, though it seems more like hours.

Shiro takes him out to the balcony where the storm is nothing but a light dusting of snowflakes. The cold air nips at his skin but he welcomes it. It’s fresh, freeing. It alleviates some of the tension in his chest that has only worsened with every second he spends with Shiro.

“How was that?” The man in question asks with a small smile that Lance can’t help but return.

“Different,” he smiles, “weakening, but…light.”

“Light feels like the right word,” Shiro responds, “it looks good on you.”

“W-What looks good?” Lance flushes.

“Lightness. Your forehead doesn’t crinkle when you don’t think.”

“What my forehead does isn’t any of your concern.” He mumbles, covering his forehead with one hand and flattening a part of his dress with the other.

“The dress looks extravagant as well,” Shiro continues regardless of Lance’s little moment, “fitting—and…and gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” Lance murmurs quietly, a small smile spreading across his cheeks, “my father would have never approved.”

“Why? It suits you so well.”

“He doesn’t believe I should love them as much as I do,” Lance shrugs, twirling to the side as he watches the tail end of the dress drag behind, “that I should wear a button down instead.”

“A button down wouldn’t suit you.”

“Oh it would,” Lance chuckles, crossing his arms, “and it does. But I just, feel like _me_ in the dress. And I—”

“I’d let you wear dresses every day if you stayed here with me.”

The statement is abrupt, rushed to the point where Lance has to wonder what it took for Shiro to even _say_ it in the first place. His features are blown wide, chest rising and falling at a higher rate than he’d ever seen.

The prospect alone of staying with Shiro is frightening as much as he finds himself leaning towards agreeing. There’s so much he’d have to abandon, yet on the other side of the coin, an abundance to explore.

Lance would be living a life beyond the one he’d been destined to have in his small town. As looming and threatening as the castle had been in the beginning, it suddenly— _almost—_ has become a comfort in itself.

“I… I don’t even know if my father has returned home safely,” He murmurs suddenly, “he could be dead and I wouldn’t even know.”

Shiro’s expression softens at the mention of Lance’s father, and for a moment the younger wonders if Shiro feels _bad_ about what initially happened. It’s more than evident that he has a soft spot for Lance, but it’s quite impossible for him to forget that Shiro truly showcased beastly characteristics in those first few days.

“I can show you him…” he says after almost a minute, “it’s a technique I haven’t used in a long time, but…”

He holds his hands out, backing within the castle walls once more. “Wait here.”

It only takes a few moments for Shiro to return with what could be a relic, nestled in the palm of his hand. It’s face glistens in the moonlight, and soon enough Lance draws the conclusion that Shiro holds a mirror in his hands. There’s a shimmering hope in his eyes, with a slight sadness. Or is it worry? Fear? Lance’s head spins, but he manages to tune back in to hear the rest of the conversation.

“You can see him through this,” Shiro murmurs, urging it in his hands, “it’s an enchanted mirror.”

_Enchanted?_

“What…w-where did you get it?”

He shouldn’t be surprised by this, truthfully. He’d seen blizzards in the middle of the summer, a beast that could talk and communicate like a human. A magic mirror should have been the least shocking of them all, right?

“It was gifted to me,” his eyes shift from Lance’s line of vision, “a long time ago.”

“How does it work?” Lance ignores the peculiarity, per usual.

“You ask it to show what you wish to see,” Shiro explains, hovering respectably above him, “usually a single command works.”

“Okay,” the brunette sighs, holding the mirror in front of him. He’s taken aback by his own reflection that screams back at him. His body is skinnier than it was before, prescrically skin and bone. He was already skinny; somehow (he knows how) things had grown worse.

“Okay,” he breathes again, gentler this time, “show me my father.”

There’s a swirl within the glass, a slight clouding, before Lance is shown a picture perfect image of his father’s worn face. The first and only thought that circulates through his train of thought is that _he’s alive_ . He made it back home and for once Lance didn’t have to _worry_ about something.

His features brighten, eyes wide with the joy of youthful, but only for a moment. His flame is quenched by another in an instant; a prickly, demonous face peeks from behind the fire that’s waved before his father.

“Lotor…” Lance whispers the name, not having said it in weeks, “what…what is he…”

_“He’s insane! He needs to be sent somewhere where they’ll fix him, and rid him of all the plague he’s contracted on his journey—”_

Lance turns the mirror on its backside, bile crawling up his throat as the image disappears with an audible woosh. Things have gotten too out of hand since he’s disappeared, and the thought of _Lotor_ putting his father in imminent danger turns his insides in the worst way possible.

“He…he’s…” The young man can barely form words, clutching onto the handle of the mirror with a tight grip. Shiro rests his hand on his shoulder. It’s warm, but Lance barely acknowledges it as tears well in the creases of his eyes.

“Lance, I’m so sorry—”

“I have to go back.”

Shiro sighs; it’s pained, understanding, sad.

“But I don’t want to.” He finds himself saying, shoving the mirror into Shiro’s unsuspecting hands before storming over to the other side of the balcony, “I—I have to, but I _can’t,_ and I shouldn’t want to and—”

“The wind changed the first day you came through, Lance.”  
  
Lance keeps his gaze still, turned to the stone, knowing full well that Shiro _has_ to be looking at him. He can’t bring himself to glance back, knowing what he’d be relaying if he did.

“The blizzard suddenly didn’t feel as brutal. I’d walk out to the corridor on an off day, and I’d see you smile, and everything would be bearable in that instant. It’s childish and naive, but I don’t think I’m wrong when I say that it’s your doing.”

“Shiro—”

“I look at you…” his voice cracks with the pain of a wounded soul, “and I see worlds beyond anything I’ve read in my library. Hell, I didn’t give those books a second glance before I met you.”

Lance’s fingertips clutch the pillar beside him. He’s stuck again; a rock and a hard place. To trust, or to run.

“Your eyes are filled with adventure…and wonder. Something I don’t have the capacity to understand.”

His stomach turns when Shiro dares to step closer, but he lets it happen regardless. Claws scratch against the marble beneath their feet. Lance can feel the heavy puffs of his breath, but he can feel the raw emotion in his words more, the truth behind every syllable.

“To hold you hostage, would just be fueling my own selfishness.”

“Hey hey, wait—”

“I give you your freedom.”

Lance is a tactician. He’s plotted his escape so many times, he was starting to lose count of how many plans he’s mapped out in his little queen bed. Some even involved engaging the beast in combat. But he never planned to be released. He was prepared to fight; just like he always has.

But now, he doesn’t have to.

“Take the mirror with you,” Shiro continues, offering the handcrafted beauty to Lance, “make sure you can see him at all times. Take… take care of yourself.”

“But I—”

“Please…” Lance sees it in his eyes more than he hears it quiver in his voice, “I want you to go. I’ve held you here long enough. Just…just remember me.”

His fists close in, free hand clutching the ends of the dress that falls so gracefully at his feet. Endless plotting, unshaken resistance, and the moment he’s let _go_ , and he doesn’t have to fight, all he wants to do is run back into his arms. His _arms_ , that he felt safe and fleeting in for the first time since he’d arrived. He didn’t predict they’d dance, that Lance was to be swept off his feet and led to a door so wide it could have swallowed him.

It’s love. A love so strong and so needy that it leaves him torn between his desire to stay and his need to return home. It’s love, and he _hates_ it as much as he needs it to thrum through his veins every second of the day.

All he can do is stare, and try not to cry like he’s wanted to for the past two weeks before turning his gaze away and dashing away from the corridor.

He cries where he knows he can’t be heard, escaping the castle with haste.

 

* * *

 

_present day_

Lotor had to be long gone by now.

“I’ve gotta get out of here…” Lance whispers to himself alone, scouring the perimeter of the constrained space.

Shiro is smarter than Lotor. If he’s learned anything in his time in captivity, it _has_ to be that. He wouldn’t have loitered in the castle, waiting to be slaughtered. Shiro and Lance are alike in the way that they’re both strategists. Never, would either of them become a sitting duck.

“Lance.”

Lance had almost forgotten about his father, huddled in the corner of the wagon, probably a thousand questions fluttering in his mind. His hands stop their search, the young man’s attention evidently shifted.

“Dad, are you okay?!”

  
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he nods, “but Lance, you’ve got to get out of here.”

“What about you?” Lance asks with a concern that Javier blows off with a wave of his hand.

“They’re not going to do anything,” his father insists, running his fingertips along the wooden carriage with the delicacy of a painter, “killing an old man will _not_ look good for Lotor, and all that man cares for is image.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Something sharp…and small…” he murmurs. “a splint of wood should work. It might be poking out of one of these planks.”

Lance is about to join him, gazing about the small space with meticulous eyes, until they’re both interrupted sharply by the creaking of the carriage door. They expect to see Lotor (Lance, expecting to see the Beast’s head on a stake), but instead, they’re greeted by the same timid face that Lance had been trying to uncover before his capture.

“What are you…” Lance’s eyes widen, along with the door. His gaze narrows, spotting sparkling, violet flecks in unsure eyes. The guard’s dark hair acts as a curtain, concealing anything past the frown that adorns his lips.

“Lotor is…” The man sighs, “a handful. He has power, looks, and he wants you too, Lance.”

“What does that have to do with you letting me go?” Lance asks, more than satisfied with the answer that follows.

“Lotor needs to learn that you can’t get everything you want because he waves his fist and demands it.” He holds his hand out, hair falling from his eyes. “And you’re the key to that rude, _rude_ awakening.”

Lance purses his lips, but takes his hand with brute, determined force.

“Find the beast.” Are his last words before Lance is hightailing it to his horse.

#

Lance ventures far past the town’s perimeter, until he can’t hear the sound of Lotor’s angry mob tearing through the forest. He wants to hope for the best, just as he did once for his father, but knows he needs to be rational. He hears a groan in the air, head flicking in the direction of the sound in an instant.

His vision serves little purpose, rendered useless once the breeze picks up, clumps of snow kissing Lance’s frozen cheeks. He’s running out of time, the realization coming with pangs of anxiety as he brushes the now fresh ice from his face.

“Gotta hurry…” he murmurs to himself, though it won’t help in the slightest. He wishes he could stall time, stall Lotor, stop _something_ in order to sort out the storms that brew in the pit of his stomach. Two weeks ago he would have never wished to be in the castle he once despised. He would have never begged for Shiro to hold him once more, to twirl on a marble dance floor a thousand cities away from where they were.

It wasn’t Lance’s nature to believe in silly, romantic fluff dreams. It was barely his nature to _dream_ . But to see the unknown, to _experience_ what he had yet to discover…

He sees an abnormal lump in the ground, it being his first significant sign of life since he’d ventured into the blizzard. Cautiously, Lance draws the reins back, guiding his horse closer to what could possibly be Shiro.

To be right at a time like this is a blessing and a curse all at once. It’s Shiro alright, barely holding on from what Lance can see from where he sits.

Lance demounts, his boots—that he was more than thankful to be wearing—crunching as they dig into the snow. It’s then when he sees Shiro’s face, somehow still a vision that manages to make the brunette’s heart race at an unexplainable, dizzying rate.

“Shiro…” His voice cracks with the tears that stream from his baby blues, dropping to his knees just as fast and crowding the Beast’s space. He’d gotten out, sure, but Lance could spot a widening flesh would amidst patches of fur.

“No, no, no…” Lance whimpers, laying Shiro’s back against the ground painted with snow. He doesn’t need to be a genius to put the pieces together. Shiro had been too late; he escaped, but Lotor made it there first.

Horrified, Lance raises his hand to the moonlight. Blood. Warm, thick blood dripping from his palm to his dainty fingertips.

He acts fast, ripping his luxurious dress at it’s tail, producing a strip of fabric long enough to patch the wound temporarily, at least. Shiro’s eyes are barely open, teeth ground together in pain.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Lance says to soothe him, but more to himself to trigger some kind of coping mechanism, “you’re gonna be okay—it’s okay—we’ll be fine, we’ll get out of here…”

His attention shifts from Shiro, gaze circling the wide opening of the forest they’d managed to find themselves in. His voice desires to betray him, to scream for help, but he _knows_ that he risks Lotor discovering Shiro’s location. And a death at his hand is worse than a death in Lance’s.

He’s on his own, and he’ll just have to deal with it.

“Okay, okay,” he whispers, taking Shiro’s body in his arms. Lance falls to the snow, but it’s the least of his problems, cradling the Beast in his arms like glass on the brink of shattering.

He blames himself for it all; though he doesn’t regret coming to save his father, he regrets feeding into Lotor’s taunts and accusations. Lance is better than that; he always has been, but today something _snapped_. It wasn’t about being better, or the bigger person. There was guttural desperation to defend Shiro on all costs.

Because he _isn’t_ a bloodthirsty, menacing creature out to kill everything in sight. The Beast almost felt _human_ in the weeks Lance spent with him. He’s intelligent, humorous… _loving_. And for once, the prospect of it doesn’t leave a bad taste on his tongue.

  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers suddenly, not sure where his words will lead him, but flowing with each one regardless, “I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner.”

He could have spent the rest of his life in that castle if he wanted to. There were so many important aspects of his life he’d have to throw away; his family, his hometown. But Shiro is dying in his arms and all he wants is to glide along glossy, hardwood mahogany. He wants a thousand lifetimes in the library, falling asleep in a fantasy world and waking up in his bed _knowing_ he was carried to the bedroom with a delicacy that could rival the snow that fell from the sky in the middle of the _hottest_ summer of the year.

Lance had spent his entire life reading fairy tales, and for once he found one of his own. Through trial and error, fear, but also through thorough understanding and examining something other than the pages of a damned book.

He’s in love. Or, perhaps he could be. And the one beast—or man—whoever he is, is hanging onto his last strand of life. And his grip only loosens with every tear that slips through his sealed eyes.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—” Lance snatches a fistful of his hair, tight and pleading, wishing he could shake Shiro back to life. He feels disgusted with himself, for narrowing his perspective so thin he missed what was in front of him, flashing in bright neon lights.

His knee buries itself in the snow on the other side of Shiro’s heaving chest, Lance’s free hand cradling what he can of his head. There’s tears in his eyes, too. It hurts just as much. He’s just as human.

“Lance…”

His gaze darts to where the voice breaks through the harsh winds.

A hushed, but sincere and broken, “You came back,” comes next and Lance’s heart shatters at the legitimate surprise in his words. Though it hides beneath a whirlwind of a thousand other emotions, Lance can still detect it.

“Of course I did—I—I love you…” he whispers, because though he isn’t ready to say it, it’s there and he _has to_ , “I’m sorry I couldn’t do better. I’m sorry—I—”

Lance’s pleas turn to stutters, surging down to press their lips together. Shiro’s lips barely kiss back but he takes it all, knowing how different it would be if the circumstances were altered in the slightest. Embracing what little he has left is all he can do as he feels the last wilting huffs of life escape his lips. Lance takes every single one like it’s his own, tugging back against his fur as their lips part, and everything around them stops. A sob racks through his body. He can’t feel the crisp pricks of snow against his skin as Shiro’s body falls limp in his arms. Lance catches the last glimpse of his eyes before they ease shut, and though it destroys any hopeful, positive bone left in his body, he smiles. Smiles because he knows what that look meant.

He’s gone. Shiro’s _gone_ , and Lance is at a loss of what to do next. He has to start with getting out of the blizzard before he can even properly cry over—

Lance’s hand hovers close to Shiro’s body, but his head tips to the sky. The snow had stopped falling. It _really_ stopped falling.

“What…”

He turns back to Shiro only for his vision to be clouded by bright, white flashes of light.

 

* * *

 

“You sure you’re…set? You can walk? I won’t hurt you?”

Lance approaches the question with caution, unsure of where Shiro stands in regards to recovery. That might not be the right name for it, but Lance doesn’t know how else to describe it. Regardless of his foreboding, Shiro smiles, taking his hand gently. Though, claws don’t cover the majority of his fingernails.

“I’m fine. Thanks to you.” He says with a sweetness that Lance would have choked on if Shiro was still as agonizing as the Beast was in the beginning of his adventure. Because yeah, he isn’t exactly the same.

Human.

Shiro, is a human.

That’s what Lance had been trying to cope with for the past eight to twelve hours. The way the Beast—or, perhaps he should get used to calling him Shiro—had just…transformed. Right before Lance’s feeble, unbelieving eyes. They’re the same person; Shiro and La Bestia, all in one. It still had to marinate, but it was a minimal concern, considering all he’d endured in these mere weeks.

He’d spent the night tending to the rest of Shiro’s now fairly smaller wounds, a thick swallow with every twinge of his now living breathing body. A man died and came back to life in his arms, and somehow he was _still_ the only one meant to take care of him, though nowhere near qualified.

They hid out in a clearing deep in the forest for the night, unsure of where Lotor would be, and taking their own safety into consideration. It was too dark for them to travel as far as they needed to, and Shiro was far too weak for a long journey.

Lance had ripped his cape off his back, making sure the latter was warm and comfortable before turning his concern to himself. It was one night he’d have to endure the cold; though he had lost layers of the golden dress in the storm, it was only _one_ night. The need for Shiro be alive was…much more powerful than his own self care.

He learned that it was a curse that put Shiro in his compromising position. For reasons that were miniscule yet valid, Shiro’s human form was forcibly taken from him and locked away by the uttering of a few binding words. The only thing that could break through? True, genuine affection for a _beast_.

He would have been in his animalistic form for the rest of his life if Lance hadn’t stumbled into his castle. Allura was the only one that knew, and she had been sworn to secrecy, knowing the curse had to be broken naturally. Once everything was explained, well, _yeah_ , it made sense.

“It was nothing,” He murmurs after mulling over the night, “you barely got out of there alive, and it was my fault.”

“No,” Shiro stops him curtly, urgently, “it wasn’t. The fault was all mine.”  
  
“I don’t want to play this game; the back and forth before one of us caves. We both are at fault, deal?”

Shiro purses his lips (quite cutely, but Lance will never verbally admit to that), but agrees by the time he’s probably mulled over it. “Deal.”

“We can go into town, now that you’re…” Still lacking an exact word, Lance just waves his hand in Shiro’s general direction before continuing, “you know. I can easily pass it off as the Beast running away, and you being a mere victim in his raging path.”  
  
“That works for me—”

“And…and I’m sorry.”

Shiro’s breath catches in his throat and Lance takes it as an opportunity to steal the moment from thin air. “For degrading you, and thinking that you were merely a brute. It took me awhile to realize, but I have yet to apologize.”

“You really didn’t have much of a choice in the matter of your— _ah_ —opinion,” Lance had chosen that moment to help hoist him onto his horse, “I don’t deserve your apologizes.”

“Take them anyway,” Lance murmurs, threading their hands together. There’s a mass lack of fur, but he ignores it all, yet again. This is who he really is. “I care for you, Shiro.”

“Nor do I deserve that.”

 _They’ll work on it_ , Lance muses, mounting himself on his horse’s back before turning back to him, parting his mouth to utter a quick, “You ready?”

Shiro’s fingertips dig into the linen cloth of his cape. Lance can feel his fear, as well as his anticipation.

“I’m ready,” he whispers, the proclamation hot along the nape of the brunette’s neck. Looking back into Shiro’s dull eyes, Lance notices something. Though his physical appearance has changed, he still gives him that same look. With those same, doe eyes, filled with something he could never put his finger on. It’s here that Lance realizes that those eyes, that gaze, hold the same appreciation and care as the beast that once held him captive.

Love. Both the eyes of the Beast, and Takashi Shirogane held granite flecks of love. With the love of both monster, and man, he’s ready. He’s ready for any path his story chooses to take.

Lance grips the reins.

“Let’s go.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](https://cabriesun.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/cabriesunz) for more content!


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